Walk The Line
by PineappleRuffles
Summary: When a night of babysitting goes horribly awry and Chloe and Katia are kidnapped by a rogue smuggler with a chip on his shoulder the size of Alaska, what will it take to get them back?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay, bear with me, this is going to be a longish Author's note for a fairly short-ish prologue type chapter. This is my first multi-chaptered story with any sort of plot, though, so I'm feeling a little anxious. Actually, a lot anxious; my confidence for high-stress and serious stories is not exactly high. The first thing I'm going to do is BEG you guys to come to me if you see anything off. If you don't like characterization, if you don't think some action or comment or other is quite on, please, please tell me! I feel like an idiot when I get things wrong and can't correct them because I don't KNOW about them, and feeling like an idiot is one of my least favorite things ever!

Now, format. This story might not exactly be formatted normally. It's kind of like a show, though; you know, the scenes don't last forever. They're not protracted. Some of my scenes might last a few pages in Word, but some might only be a few paragraphs, and whose POV you find yourself in might jump around a lot. It'll be fairly clearly marked. I like to play around with characters, see if I can write them, show things from a different angle from time to time.

I have an outline for this. It's a great outline. When I bother to write them for stories, they usually stick to the outline, so at least there's that. The outline calls for twelve chapters. I don't really have a posting schedule - once a week makes me so impatient when I read stories, but if it TAKES me a week, that's what it takes. Then again, if I whip up a chapter in a day, I'll post it then, so. ;) I guess it balances out. I really, really hope that you guys enjoy this. Remember, if you have any issues, please tell me! I'm still learning, here.

After A/N of epic lengths, Disclaimer: I don't own Covert Affairs. I don't own the characters, the actors, or any sort of canon storyline. I certainly don't own any sets or any sexy shoes. It's not mine. I'm just borrowing it. This is also unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine. Oh, and "I Walk The Line" belongs to somebody who is definitely not me - I use it to keep in-tradition with naming episodes after songs.

. . . . . . . . .

"Chloe Anne Brooks, I swear I will eat your dessert myself if you don't get back in here!" Hands perched precariously on her hips, Annie glared after her niece, eyes narrowed. At the counter, where she was dutifully swishing a damp rag to clean up the mess they'd made making dinner, Katia giggled. Annie tried to glare at her, too - really, she did - but failed miserably at her younger niece's impish grin. "She said she'd share it with me!" The younger hellion yelled, and heavy footsteps clomped back up the house's old wooden hallway, preceeding the elder spawn as she issued forth with an indignant yell.

"Aunt Annie, I was just -"

The fact that she'd been had dawning, Annie smirked as the girl's cheeks reddened and she hung her head in defeat. Sure, maybe it wasn't really nice to feel so triumphant for beating a nine-year-old in a game of wits, but she had some smart nieces. It took a lot to beat them! "March, soldier. Those dishes need drying and putting up." Pointing imperiously, she made sure that Chloe set to her task, then she returned to her own: putting the finishing touches on their bowls of brownie a la mode. Topping the modest heaps of brownie and rocky road with cheerful flourishes of chocolate syrup and spray whipped cream, she beamed, planting a newly-clean spoon in each one and making one last sweep of the kitchen to make sure everything was in place. Dani was a neat freak, and having minions to help clean didn't mean that they would do it right.

This time they had, though, through joint effort managed to get the kitchen spic and span after the insane explosion of spaghetti sauce that had somehow happened while she was trying to make dinner. Sure, there might have been a spot or two on the ceiling still, but...would Danielle really look up there?

She hoped not.

Really, she did. In the mean time, though, she beamed at the girls and gestured to their bowls of dessert. "All right. Your reward; and we can finish watching Road to El Dorado." She smiled. They cheered; it was already ten, but it was Saturday and who was she to be the mean aunt and send them to bed at their normal bedtime when it was a weekend? Plus, there were only thirty minutes or so left, and...God help her, she was interested in how the movie ended. Apparently, when you're out of the country when movies come out, you totally miss them - and what were nieces good for if not sneakily enjoying childish pursuits?

They all traipsed back into the living room, parking on the pile of bean bag chairs they'd been slumped on for three movies, now. Chloe and Katia seemed to think they were cooler than the perfectly nice furniture, and Annie wasn't going to argue with them when there was ice cream involved.

The movie passed quickly, but Annie was almost as sleepy as the girls when the credits rolled. She'd had a long few days - it might not have been so harrowing, chasing a suspected smuggler around DC, had Kingston not been her tech ops handler through them. Usually, Auggie was pretty possessive, but with him in Africa and Stu busy, well; she hadn't had much choice but to work with Kingston, who did not like her, for whatever reason. He'd been even less inclined to being pleased with her when she'd let the guy slip; it was her fault, too. Even Joan knew that. She was off her game. Maybe she wasn't ready to go back to anywhere but Desk Duty. Did it matter if she wanted to be in the field, wanted to be doing what she had been trained to do, if she was off? If she was going to keep botching things, sending them on to somebody who was better at their job than she was?

Shaking that off, grateful for the distraction, she clapped her hands together and struggled out of her bean bag. "Okay! That's that. You two, brush your teeth and get your PJs on. I'll be up in a second." She smiled as brightly as she could manage through their exaggerated groans, and shooed them off upstairs with a flap of her hands. They trudged up with heavy feet and heavier eyelids, and Annie shook her head, amused in spite of herself. They could have been she and Dani, twenty years ago; granted the rare treat of staying up when dad got back from some work assignment or other but then told to go to bed before they were ready all the same.

Ambling sleepily to the kitchen to rinse out the bowls and throw them in the dishwasher, she did a casual sweep of the house, checking to make sure the usual locks and security codes were all inputted. Outside, the wind kicked up, and she could hear the trees in the back yard lashing against the windows. Making a mental note to tell the girls not to worry about that, she set to the task of rinsing, humming one or other of the songs from the last movie to herself. As she was putting the last spoon in the machine, the phone on the counter rang loudly, and she wiped her hands, snatching it up before it could go to the machine. "Hello?" Never mind that it could really only be her sister at almost midnight, she still couldn't help but wonder.

"Annie!" Yep, Danielle. Letting out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding (She was almost thirty - ugh - years old, had lived in most corners of the world, and won her fair share of fights; she had killed a man. The primal fear of who was on the phone late at night was silly), she smiled, leaning a hip on the counter and peering out of the kitchen window contemplatively. "Dani! How are things going? You didn't kill Michael, did you?" Trying to keep her voice down, not wanting either of the girls to hear her quip, she smirked. Danielle laughed, and in the background it echoed: her sister was calling her from a bathroom. "No, not yet. Annie, I'm going to be home soon, do you think we can talk? It's been an ice cream kind of night." The quiet, strained voice was one that stirred her usual protectiveness, and Annie's smirk dropped off into a scowl. She had hurt Danielle, but Michael continued to, and...well, she didn't want to string him up by his eyelids. Really. She didn't.

Instead of that, though, she forced a smile and as much cheer into her voice as she could muster. "Hells yeah! I'll get the spoons out now." She made a point of clinking them loudly on the counter, and was rewarded with Danielle's quiet laugh. "Great. Did the girls behave themselves?" Annie winced. Oh. Yes. There was that, wasn't there? "...sure. They were great!" She went with the truth, but Dani, being Dani, heard right through it. "They're still awake, aren't they." It wasn't a question.

Annie giggled helplessly, shameless as she wandered back through the house and towards the stairs. "Want to say goodnight to them before I send them to bed?" She asked instead of answering directly, and when the affirmative came she bounced up the stairs, peeking into doors until she found them both in Chloe's room. It wasn't entirely unusual for the girls to sleep in the same room - they had until last year - so that wasn't particularly surprising. Punching the button for speaker phone, she smiled, setting it on the low pink vanity next to the bathroom door. "Alright, you two, say goodnight to your mom and then it's lights out." She instructed.

Goodnights were swift; they were both tired, and apparently Danielle's mom-radar recognized it, since she kept the conversation short and focused on getting them in bed and asleep so they could embark on some adventure or other in the morning. Hanging up, Annie shooed them into the pink pillow-covered bed, smiling at their twin expressions of sleepy mischief. "Alright, go to sleep. If you're still up when she gets home, you're gonna be in trouble." Ah, Trouble; it was nice when they were still young enough for it to work. It wouldn't be long before they grew out of that.

Impulsively planting overdramatic kisses on both of their foreheads, Annie ignored their laughing protests and exited the room, smiling to herself. In spite of having missed various amounts of their infancy and early childhood, she loved both of them, and was happy that Dani'd met Michael in High School if only for that. Even if she did want to hurt him right now.

Maybe if she'd been on her game, she might have realized that the breeze through the living room wasn't entirely normal. No, she would have, for sure, because that's not something you miss when you've had as many hours of training in observing your surroundings as she had. Unfortunately, she'd let her guard down upon locking all of the doors; she had not even considered that anything might be off.

A blur of motion at her left resolved itself into the shape of a boot just before it hit her in the face. The pain behind the immediate clack of her jaw was belied by shock, but her body reacted automatically; she lunged left, right arm swinging in a swift arc. It connected with her surprised attacker's stomach, but she only got a quick look at pale holes in a black mask before they were attacking again. An attempt to duck a similar punch sent a bolt of pain down her arm, and she matched it, raising her knee to sharply jut between the unprotected legs of the intruder. Male: check. He doubled over briefly, and she swiftly glanced around, automatically looking to see if there was anything she could brain him with - that proved to be a mistake.

He lunged again, still doubled over; her breath left her in a rush as she hit the floor hard, head snapping back and bouncing off of the hardwoods. A fist descended, fascinatingly slow-motion as, still reeling, she was unable to defend herself.

Then, darkness.

. . . . . . . .

"Annie. Annie!"

Picking her way through the overwhelming sensory input of _pain_ reporting in from all over her body, Annie stirred, and in a valiant attempt to scramble to her feet only incurred more agony. Never mind movie badassery; when you hurt as badly as she did, it was kind of hard to leap to your feet like some sort of ninja. Instead, she stumbled, hit her head on the banister at the bottom of the stairs and slumped over the risers, blinking dazedly. "Annie! What the hell happened? Are you okay? Hey!"

Fingers snapped in the vicinity of her right ear, and she turned her head in that direction, staring blankly at the pale apparition of her older sister. "Oh, god." Danielle paled even further, and Annie eyed her warily, distantly wondering what the hell was going on. Her mind was muddled, thoughts came randomly - until one struck her, cold and hot in the same moment, cleaving a path through the haze. "Dani; the girls. Go check on them." Sick fear curled in her gut as her sister immediately flew up the stairs, and she took a steadying breath, carefully collecting herself and fighting to get to her feet. Immediately, she regretted the action, but the wave of dizziness was nothing when compared to the panic that was starting to gather when Dani was silent for the few seconds it must have taken to assure that Chloe and Katia were safe.

Where was Michael? She glanced around the room slowly, and the dread in her gut only grew with the realization that all of the expensive electronics and other normal targets for break-ins were still in place and unharmed. In fact, the only sign of a struggle was concentrated around the bottom landing of the stairs.

Noises, upstairs; still leaning on the banister and trying to stop the confusion between overwhelming terror and maddening pain between her temples from forcing her to vomit up her ice cream, she could only wonder what they meant. Time passed, and though she couldn't tell you exactly how _much _ time it was, she was distantly aware of every heavy footstep that plodded down the stairs when the search was over. It wasn't Danielle. If it was her attacker, they weren't going to have a very sporting round two - she wasn't good for it. Actually, the energy that it took to lift her head to stare down whoever it was almost forced her dinner up with the ice cream, and when she found that Michael had finally appeared it somehow didn't settle the fear.

That could have been his expression, though. "They're not here." He sounded hoarse, choked, and the room spun briefly in ghastly circles as Annie lowered her head to the hand-carved bauble on top of the bottom banister. _Shit_. Guilt and terror did a macabre little dance around her aching brain, but none of that was any use as to the question that formed slowly, hampered by fog and pain: What was she going to do?

She didn't know. She didn't have the _first _ clue.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Still nervous. Heh. Was thoroughly bolstered by the reviews, though; you guys are awesome and you make me irrationally joyful and so full of loooove. Hey, actually managing to generate some interest is pretty great. Who would have thought! Thank you guys so much, for all of the reviews, and story alerts. They really do brighten my days! Sorry it took so long to post this. Been a heck of a few days, here. Death in the family. I'll try to be more timely from here out~.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything! This is unbeta'd!

. . . . . . . .

Trembling fingers did not do so well for dialing a phone. Irritably steadying herself after mis-typing in the numbers four times, Annie glared at the screen, took a deep breath, and continued dialing. Finally, she got it correct. Sucking in a breath of cold, sharp night air tingued with rain and tree sap, she closed her eyes and lifted the phone to her ear.

_Bbrrriiiiing. Brriiiiiiing. Brriiiii -_

"Annie?"

Feeling a little bit off-kilter and close to tears, Annie blinked, wildly wondering exactly why she had called somebody who was on the other side of the world rather than the police. Or the FBI. One of her friends from college who had plenty of guns for hunting. "Annie?" Auggie repeated, now sounding more concerned, and she fought for control. She was a CIA agent: she shouldn't get choked up under stress. "Auggie. I need to get in contact with Joan." She said the first thing that came to mind, and paused, wondering why the hell she thought she needed to speak with Joan. Her boss was the Director of the DPD, she wasn't the sheriff. If she didn't report the kidnapping to the police, she would most likely be in some sort of trouble.

Aug was quiet for a moment; a muffled noise could have been him excusing himself or the hot African winds on the phone as he tried to figure out what the hell she was smoking. "Annie. Tell me what's wrong." His tone brooked no argument, and she hugged herself around the middle, glancing back into the house, where Danielle and Michael were sitting on the couch looking blank. They trusted her. In spite of the pain still sending bright-hot jolts directly to her brain with every movement of pretty much the entirety of her body, she steeled herself as best she could, determined not to let that trust be for nothing. "Somebody took Chloe and Katia. Aug, I think it was my last mission. He gave me the slip and he - I think he was smarter than I gave him credit for."

The silence on the other end was very brief, this time. He swore quietly, and some of her resolve crumbled; but just as quickly, the calm was back. "Okay. You haven't contacted the police?" Somewhere between a question and a statement, he at least didn't wait for her to answer before he continued. "Don't. Joan won't want it getting out, if it's part of one of our missions. I'll contact her. Sit tight, Walker. Don't do anything stupid." _Click_. Soon enough, she would be able to forgive his shortness for surprise and worry, but the last bit of advice set Annie's teeth on edge as she smashed the 'end' button with more force than was entirely necessary and turned to stalk - limp - back into the house.

Michael looked up from the couch when she came into view, while Danielle stared ahead, as catatonic as she had been for the last ten minutes. "I can't call the police." She informed her sister's husband as calmly as she could manage, pacing back and forth a few steps at the end of the couch. He didn't know what she was, and she wasn't keen on letting him into the circle, so she explained with the first excuse she could come up with. "I called - some of my dad's friends. Army buddies. They're quicker, quieter than the cops." She sent a silent prayer to the Universe that he would buy it; honestly, she wasn't sure if she could think up a better cover. Danielle didn't even look up.

At least Michael looked moderately convinced, his face pale, slack, his mouth set in a grim line. "Can I do anything?" He asked, pale eyes sharp as he stared at her, but she shook her head. "Watch Danielle. I...have to go. I have to go meet them. Um. Stay by the phone." Her Calm And Rational voice was failing her, so she took a deep breath and handed him the handset, glancing towards the window. "Don't let anybody in here unless I call you and tell you to."

Not really cognizant of her appearance, or of the fact that she really didn't need to be driving, she started towards the door. "I'm gonna find them." Annie wasn't sure if she spoke loudly enough for Michael to hear her, but he at least looked mildly mollified as she set off.

. . . . . . . .

After having been interrupted in the middle of what had been a fairly great round of make-up sex with her husband, and never mind having left work only three hours ago, Joan Campbell strode back into the DPD at 1:35 AM. The night shift bats stared at her with wide eyes, and she eyed them back levelly, striding with confidence up to her office.

She may have been wearing jeans and Arthur's old college shirt, but she was still their boss, and she had every right to be confident. Of course, she was also a few thousand miles away from _strangling _August Anderson for having the gall to call her at home in the middle of the night, and considerably closer to strangling Annie Walker for letting this happen in the first place, but that was neither here nor there. This mess had to be sorted out swiftly and quietly, with any luck without anybody knowing about it except for those who absolutely had to. Did it make her a bad person to hope that the kidnapper was not, in fact, Santiago Ramirez, international gun smuggler and CIA target?

No. It made her smart. It would be much easier for all involved if it were Joe Schmuck, who could be wrapped up nicely and handed to the local police, since really, they didn't have any jurisdiction.

Resisting the urge to stomp childishly, she threw herself behind her desk, quickly rifling through various stacks of reports until she found the Ramirez folder. It didn't take much later, beyond that, for the head of Night Ops to descend upon her office, looking like nothing so much as an over-caffeinated chihuahua. The large-eyed woman blinked owlishly at her, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of headphones in the other, and after a short stand-off, Joan figured she ought to be the one to begin. "Yes, Celine?" She put as much composure into her words as she could, pausing briefly in her examination of the documents. Celine blinked again. "Director Campbell! Uh - are you here for Operation Salamander? Because, well, it's going as planned. We are go for 0900, nothing in the way, just monitoring the airwaves in case."

Patiently, she sighed, putting the folder down and summoning her best Boss Face. "No, Celine. I was called back in by another operative for assistance. If you need me..." Trailing off with composure, she watched the techie fidget a little, turn a vague shade of green. Before she could suggest that the woman lay off on the coffee, she nodded, and fled without another word. Joan sighed. Without Auggie to keep them running, her tech ops staff were woefully lacking in any sort of decorum. Keeping them in line was like herding genius kittens on a week-long caffeine and sugar binge.

The night watch was even worse; something about having to be up from midnight to six attracted either night owls with people issues or insomniacs who she wasn't entirely sure she trusted. Sure, she had to have _somebody_ here - but the bags under their eyes did not give her warm fuzzy feelings of safety. At least they were mostly only translating and monitoring potential threats on US soil. Without Anderson and Walker in the office in the middle of the night, it was almost peaceful.

...well, until Walker was. Looking through her expansive windows contemplatively into the bullpen as she was, it was kind of hard for Joan to miss her operative's entrance.

She looked like she'd been chewed up by a _lawnmower_. Blood made a sticky track down one side of her head and over her ear, and bruises were already starting to show up around her eyes and cheeks. As she got closer, Joan could easily see blood seeping through various parts of her clothing in small splatters. The other agents cleared a wide path for Annie as she limped towards her office; Joan met her at the bottom of the stairs, not entirely sure how she'd gotten there, righteously angry.

"Walk with me." She growled, modulating her voice in the last moment from the angry hiss that had been forming. That the idiot girl would show up looking like she'd been in a bar fight - that she'd show up at all - was astonishing. Was more than a little bit annoying, since now she also had Walker to deal with while she sorted through the mess and figured out the correct way to proceed.

Just another day - night - in the life of a CIA agent.

. . . . . . . .

_Drip. Drip. Plonk_.

Wrinkling her nose against the splash of water that came from somewhere above, Katia sighed, squirming a little bit. It was really uncomfortable, being shoved into the trunk of a car with your sister. Chloe was crying, but quietly, and she was feeling like crying wasn't such a bad idea. There was something digging into her leg, and she was scared, and now it was raining inside of the trunk and really, she just wanted to go _home_.

She didn't think she was going to, though.

Not unless they got away from the big man who'd taken them. They'd tried, at home, but then he'd hit them and told them he would kill aunt Annie if they didn't behave, and she didn't want aunt Annie to die. She looked kind of dead when he was carrying them to the car, but Katia knew that Annie was tough. She'd been training _them_ to fight like they did in the movies, too.

"I'm scared. I think he's gonna kill us." She could hear Chloe, behind her, and she squirmed a little to try and find her sister's hand. It was hard, with her hands taped together, but eventually she found Chloe's arm. Squeezing it, Katia frowned, burrowing her face into the stinky, itchy stuff on the trunk's floor instead of getting the splash of water on her nose again. "He's not," She argued, voice muffled. "Remember that show?" Mom didn't know they watched it, but sometimes, late at night, they would watch detective shows. They were cool. "The bad guy always wants money, an' he can't get money if we're dead."

That seemed reasonable enough, to her at least. Chloe didn't sound really convinced, but Katia was already thinking hard, trying to remember what else the show had said. Something about codes, like how you blink your eyes, but she couldn't really remember that.

Thinking hard, she almost missed the sound of the car slowing, but then her sister was clinging to her arm and she froze, trying to scoot as far back from the latch as she could. She knew it wasn't gonna do any good, but it was all she could do. They shook a little when it stopped all the way, and Chloe stopped crying, shaking as the door slammed and shoes made crunchy noises on...gravel. "Yeah," It was kind of weird, how clearly she could hear the guy talking, though they were in the trunk and he wasn't. Curious, she strained her ears, eyes closing. "No, she ain't dead, stupid. I grabbed the - eh - brats. Why you leave me with them, man? Just 'cause she's a spy don't mean she can do anything about kidnapping. I saw it on TV, man, they got no power."

The man with bad grammar and a funny accent was crazy. Aunt Annie, a spy? She worked for a museum. Maybe if she told him that, he'd let them go. Before she had the chance, though, his voice got further away. Was he leaving them in the trunk? Katia shivered, now. She didn't want to be stuck in a trunk with a crazy guy outside of it.

. . . . . . . .

Annie remembered, now, why she hated doctors.

Not because they had needles, or too much power, or anything else reasonable like that.

No, she hated doctors because they thought they knew everything.

Glaring heatedly at the scowling doctor who faced her with a syringe and a cotton ball dipped in something reddish, she held her ground, arms over her chest. "I'm _fine_, doctor Kelley. I don't need that. I don't need any stitches. I just need -" For the _third_ time, she began, only to be cut off once more by an imperious flap of his hand. "Sit. Down. Agent. Walker. Or I will be forced t'make you sit down, young lady." He had a quiet, menacing kind of drawl that brought out two warring sides in her: one, that wanted to do whatever he told her before he pounced on her and stuck her with that needle out of spite, and another, that felt a little like a rebellious teenager.

The first one won.

Plunking her ass irritably onto Headquarters' one emergency triage bed, she scowled, glaring angrily at him as he stalked over and jabbed the sanitizing ball at the cut above her ear. It stung like a bitch, but she kept her face blank, ignoring the sting and the subsequent jab of local anesthetic. She'd faced worse, and after being stitched up in the field by a handsome Israeli, this wasn't even going to come close to the top of her surreal medical experiences. She didn't _want_ to be here, though. She was fine. The cut was scabbing over, and never mind the various others she'd gotten, none were bleeding profusely. She needed to hunt somebody down who could find Chloe and Katia for her.

The cranky doctor busily worked on stitching up her head, and Annie sat stoically, ignoring him for the most part in lieu of mentally cataloguing all of the places that her smuggler had been. Where would he have gone back to? Would he have gone somewhere he may have been watched, or would he have gone somewhere random? Maybe she could try and track him from her desktop...but then again, she never had been _that_ amazing with computers. That was Tech Ops' job. Grinding her teeth just a little against the mental blockade (and the fact that Dr. Kelley wasn't exactly being gentle with that stabbing suture set, and the local anesthetic wasn't really working), she was busily glaring at the door when Joan ambled back in, looking as confident as ever for it being close to three AM.

"I pulled Agent Davis from monitoring Russia to track down Santiago. When you are finished here, Annie, please report to him." The older blonde murmured, appearing oddly demure, and Annie eyed her curiously. She'd been in a righteous rage a few minutes ago; was there a reason she'd changed her mind on her mood? "Doctor Kelley, does Agent Walker require any sort of medical observation?" A more professional turn of voice was offered to the doctor, who finished his task and stepped back, sharp eyes focusing briefly on the director. His lips twisted briefly into a frown, then a wary look was offered in her direction as he snapped off his gloves and crossed his arms. "Probably not, Joan. I'll come up in a few hours to check on her, all the same. She may have internal bleeding, but gettin' her to any sort of equipment -"

"No way!" Deciding that it was high time to put her foot down, Annie glared angrily, flailing a hand to get the point across and leaping off of the crinkling cot. "I'm going to find Santiago, now, if you'll excuse me." Ignoring the doctor's protests and Joan's shocked frown, she flounced out of the triage unit with a little bit more energy than she really felt. It would get the point across, at least, that she was serious and wasn't going to play games. She wasn't about to give the doctor - or Joan, through the doc - the chance to keep her for hours and hours while somebody else did the work, and got her nieces killed while trying to protect the CIA's ass. Did she trust Joan (well; Arthur, really) not to do that?

No. Not really.

She didn't trust anybody currently in this building further than she could throw them. However, as had once been pointed out to her, she _could_ find a use for them. Maybe now wasn't the time to start taking Jai's advice, but he was effective. Maybe he had a point, after all.

She stormed - okay, limped and slouched - into the DPD and the tech ops' office, rounding on Davis swiftly. "What have you got?"

He had better pray that it was good, or she wasn't sure what she was going to do.

. . . . . . . .

Annie and Davis didn't even look up from their conference when she trailed up the stairs to her office, but Joan didn't so much care - she had other things to worry about. Namely, that it was nearing four AM and she wasn't so used to all-nighters. Actually, she was enjoying this one about as much as her last trip to the Dentist. Pushing that out of her mind (there _were_ two children on the line), she sat, scanning through all of their intel once more; just in case. With any luck, somebody would bring her coffee soon, so she didn't have to interrupt her train of thought in order to do so herself.

It was not to be. She had only finished reading the fifth page detailing Ramirez's toilet habits when her phone began ringing stridently. Frowning, she glanced towards the door; well, with no secretary to warn her, they must have patched the caller through for messaging purposes. Nonetheless, she picked up - and didn't have time to demand to know who was on the other line, since he was already speaking. "- believe she let him get the jump on her! You let her take on somebody like that? You know she doesn't trust Kingston!" The last time somebody had used that tone of voice (shouting! At her!), they had bled, but she knew August Anderson. She knew that tone of voice, for him, even.

He was afraid.

That didn't entirely mean that she was disposed to giving him any slack, but...well, Auggie had always taken up a lot of her soft spot. Damn it. "Did he hurt Annie? Do you have word on the girls, yet?" The bitten-off words were snarled, snapped at her as if he was holding more back. He probably was. Joan scowled faintly, leaning back a little in her chair to glare at the ceiling. "Yes, and no. Annie's fine. Her nieces will be. We are working on it, Auggie. It is in the Agency's best interest to find Ramirez." She knew he would catch on the unsaid _nobody's going to let him get away with anything, it's convenient to our goals_, and knew he had when he was quiet for a moment.

As patiently as she could, she waited for him to conclude the conversation; she had business to attend to, and as much as she usually had time to talk with Anderson, this was not one of those circumstances. Far from it. "I'm in Barcelona," Eventually, the voice on the other line spoke up, and Joan blinked, leaning forward once more and eyeing the phone sidelong. "I was in Cadiz...well, now I'm not. I booked a flight home. I'll be at Dulles at five PM, if there aren't any delays. Will you send somebody to pick me up?"

The last she had checked, both Cadiz and Barcelona were in _Spain_, which, while close to Africa, were not anywhere near where August had informed her he was going. Count that as a ball dropped by the East Africa desk. She scowled, and sighed, shaking her head at the futility of it all. "Yes. I am going to return to my work, now. Goodbye." Grimly, she hung up, carefully depositing the phone back on its' cradle and turning back to her files.

What was it they said about the futility of trying to herd cats? She wasn't a collie. She wasn't even caffeinated enough to be functioning at top level, not that she would ever admit that. To anybody.

Never mind: She had work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, I'm not sure whether or not to be exasperated with myself for blushing like a schoolgirl for awesome reviews. Pretty sure I am, but also sure that I don't care, because woo! Starting to understand why people like them so much. ;) Thanks so much, guys; you make me stupidly happy every time I wake up and there are more. Ha. I hope that this moves along fast enough, but not too fast - it's been a healthy amount of time since I've had to worry about spacing, so, heh. This one is kind of a 'filler', and is thus a little short, BUT I hope it's interesting with the different POVs and...well, it's been a bad day AND I've been up for twenty four hours now, sooo. Ha.

I wanted to use some already-in-place characters, but jeez, they have a bad time with surnames on CA! I figure not everybody will refer to Stu by his first name, so henceforth in this story he's Stu Shepard. Robert - from "Houses of the Holy", played by Winston Marshall - will be Robert Winchester. I'll make notes of anybody else I decide to use.

Disclaimer: I really don't own Covert Affairs. Any of it. Woe is me! This is also unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own. Including the em-dashes who WILL NOT BEHAVE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S GOOD AND LOVELY.

. . . . . . . .

Pacing furiously around Tech Ops' bullpen, Annie glared at nothing and everything, halfway to relishing in the way that her muscles were warming up, the pain receding to a dull roar behind a strange numbness that had set in. It was less threatening to her state of mind than worrying about why Davis was frowning, or why Joan hadn't set on her like a rabid badger yet for leaving the doctor's corner without okaying it.

"Come on, don't you have anything?" Hating the way her voice quavered, sounded more like a plea than a demand, she scowled. Davis glanced up from his work, grimacing. He was older than Auggie, and looked a little careworn; he had to have been at this for a while. How many times had he gone up against somebody like her? How many green agents had he dealt with? The questions formed automatically, but she didn't really care what the answer was: just the results. "Not yet." The man murmured patiently. "I've gone over his last known location - before they left for the evening, Winchester and Shepard checked in on him in Baltimore. He was holed up, and had a ticket to Barcelona tomorrow. There's no indication that he was going anywhere but back home." Frustration crossed the techie's face briefly, and Annie grimaced in sympathy.

Massaging her temple (and immediately regretting it, when her newfound stitches gave an angry throb), she sighed, pacing back and forth a few strides and staring out into the DPD's bullpen irritably. Davis went back to work, and Annie tapped anxiously on her hip, fingers itching to strangle _somebody_, if not poor Davis who was probably doing the best that he could. The tapping was starting to drive her insane; she wanted, _needed_ the usual rhythm of tap-tap-tap-pause-tap-pause that Auggie brought, not the constant rattle of the older tech ops agent as he went about his business. It was maddening. How didn't his head explode?

Before she actually _did_ come apart at the seams, she shivered, eyes flicking to the door. "I'm gonna -" Davis flapped a hand, and for a moment she was tempted to smile, noting the unspoken understanding. Maybe he wasn't so bad; he just wasn't who she actually wanted. "Yeah." Without waiting for more of an acknowledgement, she fled, feet beating a swift path to the restrooms.

She was experienced enough in high-stress situations to understand the sudden change that had come over her. The shakes. The knotting in her stomach. The slight jell-oing of her legs, the way every muscle felt like it was about to give out: the action was over, and she'd been doing nothing for too long. In spite of the fear still doing cartwheels through her consciousness, the majority of the adrenaline had worn off. The letdown was about to go down in a big way; and making it to the restroom suddenly seemed much more than just a good idea. So she ran.

It didn't matter: she was only wearing her sneakers, and while they squeaked madly on the floor beneath her dragging, stumbling footsteps, they were better for running than her stilettos were. There was nobody around the halls to see her shambling dash, and distantly she was glad, but in the front of her mind she could only think to the door that seemed impossibly far away. Any other time it might have been funny, how it seemed to get further away with every step - but not tonight.

_Finally_, she reached the door, and threw it open (there were no satisfying crashes; CIA doors usually worked well, and this one was no exception), bolting for the first stall quickly. Puking efficiently was a skill, but after the first few months of developing an affinity for college life and the last few years of regularly ending up in trouble, she'd managed it - never mind that that particular skill was not one she relished. Shutting down the dry heaves was tricky, but wallowing wasn't practical; feeling oddly detached from the emotion, she stalked to the sink and rinsed her mouth out repeatedly, grimacing. Much as she was maybe used to it, it wasn't exactly pleasant. Only after she'd beaten two vials of mouth rinse from the dispenser did she feel even slightly better, and even then, she eyed her reflection with distaste.

_Note to Self: More lessons with Aug._ She couldn't lose like that; sometimes, it was too important. If she'd been better, Chloe and Katia would probably have been fine, right now. Closing her eyes briefly, trying to shut out the guilt, she took a steadying breath and washed her hands for what was probably the fifth time. Then she left the bathroom, and made a beeline for the locker room off of the gym. Keeping an extra set of clothing in there had become practice, since she never really had any idea what her days would bring, and the car (and the bolt bag therein) was further away.

Ten minutes later, and having shoved herself (not without discomfort) into a pair of jeans and an extra sweater, she strode back up to the DPD, feeling slightly less exposed and disgusting. Of course, she still had blood matting her hair and the cuts from her run-in with a boot were pulling uncomfortably on the rough material of the jeans and wool sweater - but she at least looked half way to professional as she moved through the growing early-morning crowds, in for catching up or hitting the gym before they resumed their workdays. Few people even noticed her, and for that she was glad as she made her way back up to the DPD.

. . . . . . . .

Miles Davis typed furiously, scanning rapidly through two documents at the same time as he scrolled through all of the stored data they had on Agent Walker's bad guy. After having been relegated to the night shift after a slight tangle with Arthur, this was the most action he'd seen in months - and he was feeling slightly guilty for enjoying it. Still, stretching the mental muscles that hadn't quite atrophied was good, and he could feel old instincts starting to tickle at every slightly off bit of information. The guy wasn't a ghost: he was either a genius, or the dumbest crook he had ever seen, and in Miles' experience...well, people aren't usually geniuses. The rookie had, as far as he could discern, managed to bag herself a big bad idiot with more ambition than sense. Damn. Those were the worst kind to deal with, since they were prone to not reacting well when they were cornered.

And they would corner him. He had faith in that.

Then, he still had faith in the CIA, ten years in and all.

He could only hope that Walker - Annie, he reminded himself with the briefest of smiles, she was an odd one and had asked her to call her Annie on one of Aug's drinking nights with half of Tech Ops and _his_ girl - would be around to decide for herself if she did. Would she, could she go on in the Company if this went south? Was that something she could move past? The scientist in him was curious; the human shrunk back in terror. He didn't have children. Or family. Really, it was better that way for all involved.

"Hey, Len," Glancing up and eyeing his protege over the maze of computers and twitchy-eyed techies, he waited for the younger agent to acknowledge him. It took a moment, but the overcaffeinated kid blinked owlishly at him after a moment, and he smiled thinly. "Go make sure Walker's okay, then report to Joan." He paused, frowned. "Bring the Director some coffee, will ya."

Maybe using his agents as errand boys wasn't really the nicest thing, but they'd all been there at one point. Len was the youngest and had been here the shortest amount of time - plus, he was awkward and shy enough to get past Annie's defenses and actually be able to discern whether or not she was fit for working this. Actually, no, she _wasn't_; which was why he was working this instead of his translations.

He just hoped that Auggie, whenever he got home (and he wasn't stupid enough to consider that the boss didn't know, or that he wasn't holding somebody at gunpoint to get him back home presently), would cut him some slack and not tear him limb from limb. Miles was not an idiot: Aug could, and would rip him apart if he let his damn agent get hurt. It was that, more than any personal affection for the trouble-attracting girl that pushed him to do his best. Hey, he liked Walker, but he liked all of his limbs right where they were. On his person. It really wasn't all that out-of-line to hope that they remained there. Anderson was possessive as hell.

Furiously, he resumed scrolling, typing with one hand and contemplating whether or not the results of his queries were good enough to warrant attention. After a moment, he decided no; Joan would invariably check in soon enough, and he didn't have a location yet. The guy was slippery as hell, and tracking down where he'd been squatting was proving kind of hard beyond the reports from the last few days of Annie's observations with Kingston. Vaguely, he wrinkled his nose. Kingston was one of the worst types the occupation attracted - ruthlessly self-obsessed, determined to do something, no matter who he threw under the bus. He was _good_, when he was on top of his game, but he wasn't about to blame the girl for not working well with him. Hell, if he could have talked Joan into it he would have taken over while Stu was with Robert and Aug was off doing his thing, but that hadn't entirely gone well. Maybe that would save his sorry hide: he _had_ tried.

Well, it was in the past now. The present was significantly more important than the past, at this point, and damned if it didn't look suspicious to him that Ramirez had driven twice by the school the kids went to while Robert was on watch - how hadn't that information gotten relayed? Sure, twice wasn't the end of the world, could have been coincidental, but didn't the rookie know by now that even the smallest of coincidences in the CIA could spell trouble? He knew that Shepard did. Damn.

Auggie was going to kill _somebody_. Miles just hoped it wasn't him.

. . . . . . . .

He was going to stab he next person who offered to help him.

Usually, it was only embarrassing - but right now, it was infuriating. No, it was maddening. He didn't even have to work up the thunderous scowl that usually scared people off, as he finally found his seat and threw himself into it, letting his head fall back against the too-soft headrest without losing the face.

After he finished stabbing people, he was going to forcibly remove the spleens of every single person who had dropped the ball on keeping his operative and her family safe; he should have known better than to leave. Needing the down-time or not, needing to get things off of his chest and then taking an impromptu solitary roadtrip across Africa and up into Span or not, he wasn't exactly expendable. He was humble enough to accept that as fact. Damn it. When had he so lost track of things that he forgot that there were people who depended on him? Namely, the agents he worked with? Hughes and Lincoln could take care of themselves - and okay, so could Annie - but Walker...well, she was special. She was _his_, and he had the whole flight to consider just how the hell he was going to rip Joan a new one for saddling Annie with Kingston. Of all people!

Taking calming, cleansing breaths was bullshit. He may have been able to get it to work in the field, may have been able to clear his mind of all of the external chatter when he was covered in armor and hotter than a lizard in the Sahara, but it wasn't working today. It just wasn't working. Every time he managed to take on some semblance of calm, every time he dragged the vague remnants of his professionalism and sanity together into a cohesive mass, they were sent scattering beneath the thoughts that were pinging uselessly around his brain.

Sometimes, he hated being a human. If he were a computer, the solution would be simple. A plus B never equals F, but how do you tell yourself that C is the right answer when you know it's the one that's hardest to pull out of your ass?

He needed to let go of the anger, he knew that. Anger wasn't going to get him anywhere, and it sure as hell wasn't going to solve any problems. Stress heightens senses, but anger tears them down into bits of fluff before a gale, and fear blasts those little bits of fluff into sand. _He hated sand!_

Scrubbing his hands angrily over his face, feeling the roughness brought by more literal sand from days wandering aimlessly down desert highways until somebody picked him up - honestly, he wasn't daft enough to miss any junctions when there was only one road, and the only directions were east and west - he sighed irritably. The blame game wasn't helping anybody, anyways. Never mind that that Joan _did_ deserve his anger. Never mind that ripping Kingston limb from limb _was_ a reasonable response, or that if this plane didn't hurry on its' flight he wasn't sure what exactly he was going to do.

Yeah, that was unreasonable. The plane would fly as fast as it was going to fly. Irrationally, he didn't give a flying damn. It was time for his vacation of - whatever the hell it had been - to be done with, and he needed to go back to work. Taking a few calming breaths, he leaned back, and willed himself to sleep. Even if he couldn't turn off the helpless rage, he could still sleep whenever he needed to. At least he hadn't gotten _that_ far out of line.

Then, when he got home, he would have the energy to bring down hell on...well, he wasn't too picky as to who.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Gaaaah. I'm sorry, you guys. Dealing with epic-proportions muse death which isn't really helped by being sick, and having hectic offline, and yeah. I could make excuses all night or I could write, and finish this chapter, and I prefer the latter. ;)

Oh; I hope you'll pardon my use of OCs. I figured it was really the only way to get the stuff done that I needed done! Plus, OCs are good for stories, in my experience - I like Davis, and the others I've come up with. So. Yes. I may continue to occasionally toss the story into their POV, for the outside view of things.

Disclaimer: I don't even slightly own Covert Affairs, and all mistakes herein are my own!

. . . . . . . .

If a CIA doctor cornered you with a needle and stabbed you pretty much against your will, could you still kick their asses legally?

Annie glared mutinously at the retreating back of Dr. Kelley - apparently after the heart of Dr. McCoy (she would never, _never_ tell Auggie that she'd watched that one. No way.), he'd tracked her down with a damn syringe full of _something_, stuck her, and was now stomping back off towards Joan. Did she look a little bit like a baby in front of several of her coworkers? Maybe. Did she care? Hell no. She hadn't been entirely sure what he was trying to get her to take...but if she passed out in the bullpen, when she woke up she was going to _kill_ that man.

Thankfully, as she turned tail and stormed out of the DPD, she didn't feel particularly woozy, or...really, any different at all. Which was the only reason she didn't turn around and stomp on the guy's kidneys, as she careened haphazardly down the halls and into the elevators. After waiting for Davis to respond to her pleas for information for an hour more, she now felt ready to explode even more urgently than she had before. There had been no contact by anybody, no signs whatsoever that anything was happening with Chloe and Katia. Joan hadn't come out of her office, and when she'd tried to call Auggie for - well, he usually knew what to do - it had gone straight to voicemail. Clearly, Davis hadn't been able to get anywhere, so -

So she was going to get things done. By herself.

She wasn't an idiot. She knew the basics; knew how to canvas places she'd followed the guy before. There was always the possibility that he was a complete idiot, or had panicked, or any number of variables would fall into place, and if she went to the trouble of trying to find somewhere new only to find him back in the ratty motel he'd stayed in when he first got into town, or the condemned office space he and his buyer had met - well, she wasn't sure she'd be able to live with _that_.

So she exited the building at a limping trot, nodding to the night shift guards and ignoring the stream of incoming coworkers. She didn't even acknowledge Stu, who stared at her like she was crazy in the predawn twilight, paused on the front courtyard comically. It would have been comical, at least, were she not worried out of her mind and determined to get something done. If nothing else, Davis would read her friend in, and they could brainstorm if he didn't have anything pressing to do, this morning. Actually, she wasn't sure if anything was more pressing, but this was the CIA. They had work to do, and the world didn't revolve around her two nieces, no matter how much she was pretty sure that it did.

Lack of sleep had yet to catch up to her, yet to rear its' head and remind her that she hadn't actually slept since this time yesterday, or that it had been a hell of a night. She blazed the trail to her old VW without pause, distantly aware that being able to park _closer_ didn't mean that her legs weren't going to burn by the time she skidded to a stop outside of its' door, panting sharp breaths as she keyed it open quickly.

Eventually, Joan would realize she'd left. Eventually, somebody would come running after her and stop her from doing what she had to do, and that couldn't happen. Let them come, just as soon as she got past the guards, just as soon as they couldn't _catch_ her. She had business to attend to; so she threw herself into the driver's seat and started the old car.

Old may the Golf have been, but she roared willingly to life, and peeled out of the parking lot at a stately pace, weaving around the slower incoming cars easily. Nobody seemed particularly perturbed by her behavior, and a few DPD agents waved merrily as she wound through the lot, making her way out before anybody could take notice of her leave.

. . . . . . . .

_Oh god no._

Stu stared, wide-eyed and horrified, at Joan. When he had left Ramirez and his troubles behind for the night, he hadn't expected anything fishy, had pretty much forgotten all about work in favor of getting home to fall into bed and possibly sleep for a week. He hadn't even accepted the guys from the fifth floor's invitations to join them for a marathon of "retro" gaming; unlike them, he could actually remember when the games first came, and he was pretty sure the younger agents hadn't been born at that point, anyways.

Now, he was kind of wishing that he had gotten one last round with his old Commodore 64. Because Joan had just signed his death warrant, all unknowing.

"You - you're...serious?"

Unable to put up an entirely Professional front, facing his imminent demise, he stared dazedly at the Director. She met his gaze evenly, eyes too bright, posture too straight for any room for jokes. He didn't think she'd joke about that, anyways. With the way her hair was flat and shoved into a messy ponytail rather than perfect, and the fact that she was wearing what he knew for a fact was her emergency suit (who had drawn the short stick and had to dry clean it, after all), she'd been here all night.

She didn't even have to answer: he knew that she wasn't lying. Annie Walker's nieces had been kidnapped, most probably by the man he'd been helping her watch all week.

That could mean only one thing (beyond that he _was_ going to find his friend's nieces). He was dead. He was dead in - how many hours did it take to get to DC from Africa? Like anybody else in the DPD who had a brain in their heads, he was pretty sure that his boss would move the earth for his operatives, but Annie Walker was special. Honestly, if "PROPERTY OF AUGUST ANDERSON" hadn't been stamped across Walker's person from the first day she'd walked into the DPD, he might have had a shot. As it was, though, he knew with sickening clarity that he was as dead as a doornail as soon as the head honcho got off the plane. How many forms of fighting was Anderson proficient in? How many times had he killed a man?

"Certain. Please have Agent Davis fill you in on his progress before you debrief with Walker."

Oh no.

_Damn_.

"Walker?" He asked, really hoping that his voice wasn't shaking, in the face of Joan's slightly sleep-slack-eyed glare. When she didn't speak, just glared, he continued helplessly. "She, uh, she was just leaving when I arrived."

Sure, he couldn't have done anything to _stop_ that, hadn't even known anything was wrong - but that didn't mean that he didn't feel slightly guilty when Joan's lips pinched and her jaw clenched and she went gliding off to decapitate somebody without anything further for him. He counted himself lucky to not have been the one to be decapitated; no, she seemed to be heading for Davis' office. Much as he wanted to help the guy, a better idea would have been wrestling a bear, so instead he bolted for the Starbucks as fast as his feet could carry him.

When he returned, having devoured a bagel on the walk back up and halfway through the first of two venti coffees, Joan was huddled near the conference room's whiteboard with Jai and Robert. There were scribbled addresses, two crossed out; apparently the non-techie's best idea of working with the situation. Stu bit back a sigh, and slipped into the room, standing next to his operative. With a nod to the third coffee in his holder, he greeted Robert, smiling faintly before turning his attention to Joan and Jai. They were arguing, which really wasn't very unusual, except it kind of was; Jai had his own office to worry about, now. Why was he worried about what went down in the DPD?

Actually, though, he knew the answer to that question.

Annie. It was always Annie. She had a way of earning the trust and loyalty of _everybody_.

So, while he wasn't exactly _surprised_ to see Satan's son, he also wasn't happy. Mostly because Jai had the best skills of any of them in getting under Joan's skin, which he was apparently applying with abandon as he gesticulated madly at one of the addresses. He recognized the address, of course; it was one of the places they had tracked their guy, just yesterday. Vaguely, Stu repressed a shudder; just yesterday, had Ramirez been plotting, planning to snatch the kids who he knew Annie would do anything for? Even as they had been going home, comfortable and safe, had the guy been waiting for his chance?

"Annie's going to get herself killed." Observed Winchester in and undertone, next to him, and Stu cringed. Yeah, no, at very least he couldn't let _that_ happen. Preferably, he'd keep his _own_ agent alive while keeping his own hide at least mostly safe from dismemberment a la Auggie. "Not this time, man." He disagreed. "I just need to reestablish contact with her. You got the brain trust here? I need to get back to my station." Joan and Jai seemed absolutely involved in their argument, and he wasn't about to jump in; Rob was much better at diffusing arguments than he was. He was okay with that, because it meant he could get his ass out of the conference room and go back to where he was useful.

His agent shrugged and cringed a smile, nodding towards the arguing pair. Stu clapped him on the shoulder, prayed for the poor guy's sanity, and fled to try and reestablish contact with Walker before she went completely off the reservation and ended up burned, dead, or worse.

He only hoped he could get it through in time.

. . . . . . . .

With the windows down on the VW and smoggy early-morning-commute city air stinking up the cabin, Annie made her slow and cautious way through the industrial district. It was a riot of beeps and honks, crashes and thuds, as trucks loaded and unloaded, workers hollered at one another and machinery did its' thing. There were few actual cars around, but she didn't feel too much out of place, didn't care that her presence raised a few eyebrows among the workers.

It took nearly an hour to reach her destination, between parking several blocks away at each juncture of the larger block to observe for a period, then circling the block as inconspicuously as she could. Finally, she circled the building itself, then parked in the parking lot of the building next door. Clutching her Beretta as subtly as she could from its' holster beneath her jacket, she made a swift circuit of the outside of the building, checking for signs of activity. The drab concrete building was largely without windows, and other than some fresh-smelling graffiti along the north wall, she could find no signs of recent activity. Knowing that that didn't mean much - they knew for a _fact_ that Ramirez had come through this building - but it did mean that he was more careful than she'd given him credit for.

He _had_ made one slip-up; the fourth door she tested, a side-door with a dent in it without a good view from the other buildings, was unlocked. Silently sending up a word of thanks to whatever was looking out for her, Annie swiftly opened and closed the door, withdrawing her pistol as soon as she was in the building. It took several impatient moments of standing before her eyes adjusted enough to the mostly-gloom of the warehouse for her to be confident enough to go forward. The only light in the old factory (which had been, most recently, a large-scale tannery - and smelled it) came through the infrequent windows, sending slats of weak morning sunlight down on the grim interior. Dust motes swirled into the light with her every step, and while her sinuses protested weakly, she kept as well-hidden as she could; which included not sneezing.

The stinking equipment, tanks and rollers and tables, must once have been very useful, but as she kept in the shadows of stainless steel and obscure bundles of what she really hoped wasn't hair, Annie couldn't find much use for it. Still, with every opportunity, she checked the footprints in the thick coat of dust and fluff on the floor for smaller ones; and wasn't sure whether or not to be relieved when, in one full circuit of the exterior of the warehouse, she didn't find any.

Water dripped steadily from somewhere far above, as she set off to carefully check the interior aspect of the building. The chill of morning was setting in, in the cold concrete warehouse, but she tried not to let it get to her. If this lead wasn't the right one, she would just find another. She'd keep looking until she found the _right_ one. Resolve thrumming in her veins like the adrenaline that had fled a few hours ago, she kept on creeping, sneakers barely making any noise on the dust-muffled concrete floor.

Unfortunately, if _she_ wasn't making a noise, somebody else was. Somebody, or some_thing_. Slowing even further as the noise got louder, she slunk several steps back, cramming herself into the fetid space between some large tumbler and a sink. _Shhh. Schlp. Shhh. Schlp. Clank._ Annie strained her ears, strained her entire being to attempt to discern the difference between the soft noises and the normal noises of a disgusting abandoned building. Was she being paranoid? Was she just wasting time, standing here, waiting for something to happen?

Unsure, she waited several minutes, eyes flicking hopelessly between the flashes of sunlight in the darkened room, waiting, hoping for something to dart through them, reveal itself. Surely there was _something_!

Surely -

_BRRRRIIIIIIING. BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIING. BRIIIIIIIIIIIIIING._

Her startled jump threw her head back against the heavy steel, as she fished frantically for her phone, battling the stars that swam across her vision. If whoever was making those noises heard it, she was dead, and how loud was it? Had they already heard her, were they coming for her?

Depressing the answer button entirely by accident, she was more surprised than anything when a voice came in through the other end of the phone.

"_Agent Walker._"

It was familiar, but not, and surprise was all that forced her to forget that there was possibly somebody coming to kill her and bring the phone to her ear. Breathing shallow, she waited for them to continue. "_Your nieces are beautiful children._" The voice. It was the voice of Santiago Ramirez. She must have made a noise, because he chuckled, soft and cheerful.

"_If you had to choose..._"


End file.
